


ficlet: sleepy snogs

by belovedmuerto



Series: He Kindly Stopped For Me [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lots of it, M/M, Snogging, death!john, demigod Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock did it for love, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ficlet: sleepy snogs

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the silliness of the title.

He knew it the first time it happened: Sherlock crawled into John’s bed and John doesn’t kick him out again immediately. He knew then that he would forgive Sherlock. Knew that he wasn’t going anywhere. He wouldn’t be leaving, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. He’d be by Sherlock’s side until the end of his life. Probably longer, if he’s honest with himself. 

He’s bent the rules before, though it’s been eons. 

Come to think on it-- 

But no, no use digging that up again. 

But the binding on him, the magic that holds him in this frail mortal body, it chafes. He feels it like cuffs around his wrists. He feels it like chains around his neck, around his body. Sometimes it feels like a noose around his neck. It drags around him, making him feel too heavy, too slow, unable to concentrate on anything but the feel of the binding on him. It seems easier this time than he remembers it being the last time, not as heavy a weight, but the memories, the bitterness are still there. 

Sherlock did it for love, though. And John cannot help the way he feels for Sherlock, either. He’d poured out his heart to Sherlock when he’d thought he was dying, and now that he’s not, he doesn’t find that he wants to take those words, that confession back. And though Sherlock hasn’t said anything since then, he doesn’t exactly try to hide how he feels. 

So he doesn’t kick Sherlock out of his bed, though he still cannot quite bring himself to speak to him, for fear of saying things he won’t be able to take back, saying things that he doesn’t truly mean, for fear of doing real, irreparable harm to the fragile balance they seem to be finding. Slowly. Very slowly.

They’ll have to talk eventually.

So occasionally Sherlock crawls into bed with him, late at night. John allows it, and allows himself to treat it like he’s dreaming, when Sherlock gets a little bit closer each time, and yet is still gone when John wakes in the morning. 

But this. This he’s not sure he can write off as a dream. 

Sherlock is kissing him. Snogging the hell out of him, actually. He’d roused John from sleep with a gentle shake, and John had turned with a half-formed inquiry, wondering if it was a case, and Sherlock hadn’t even let him speak. He’d cupped John’s face in his hands, and kissed him. Is kissing him. Desperately, and gently, pressing carefully into John, murmuring things between kisses in old and dead languages, as though that will stop John understanding what he’s asking for, begging for.

Forgiveness.

John can taste his sorrow in his kisses. His sorrow that he’d bound John to him without asking, without thought, without remorse. The sorrow wars in his kisses with the well of sheer joy, Sherlock’s childlike pleasure that John is alive, that John is still with him. His joy that John is kissing him back, moaning into him, murmuring “yes” into his mouth over and over again, in every way he knows how, clutching him close.

They shift against each other, uncoordinated and messy, and John tastes ire now. Sherlock’s anger that John had held a secret, that he’d never known, never deduced, and John chuckles against his lips and murmurs, “But you always miss something,” and Sherlock growls into his mouth.


End file.
